Flipside Firefly
by Von
Summary: Wizards are people too. And people get infected. A story in which Harry puts himself first, told through disjointed snapshots.
1. Chapter 1

Just an experiment in 'story told through snapshots'. There's no big plot in mind because frankly I need a break from the dozens of monsters that I've got running in the background. If you've read my Dishonored stuff, you'll pretty much know what to expect.

**Flipside Firefly**

Turned out, Wizards weren't immune.

He didn't know why they'd thought they _would_ be, except… you know. Magic.

It hadn't hit them as fast as it had the Muggles. The Daily Prophet's vague reports were almost _positive_ about the curious 'Muggle disease' radically reducing an over-populated people. As if it was natural and right. No-one publicly said that it served them right, was punishment for their hubris, but it could be read in every arrogant strut of purebloods and elitists.

After it finally reached them, he - they, _everyone _ - realised that the insular Wizarding World just hadn't had as many points of contact with the infected as the Muggle world did. Fewer 'caught' it. Fewer spread it. But spread, it did…

And the infected _kept their magic._

The more they lost their minds, the their magic lashed out. A man with great waves of fungus growing out of his groin and armpits _screamed_ and the girl fleeing him was tripped, dragged, _reeled in_ by his magic. _Finite_ didn't work against them, because _finite_ only worked on _spells_.

They tried to subdue them. A full-powered _stuptefy _only staggered them. Their frenzied thrashing often broke a levitation spell. Ropes sometimes snapped, unless hardened or cast by multiple people.

Once safely restrained, they tried to cure them.  
Potions didn't work. Spells didn't work. Amputation didn't work.

At a loss and with more and more purebloods catching the disease they doled out the phenomenally expensive draught of living death, to keep the victims harmless until a cure could eventually be found. Unfortunately too-few Wizards understood what spores even _were_, let alone what their presence - floating on the air and puffing out of bodies both moving and still - meant for them.

The infection spread.

Kill-on-sight orders were issued.

Some infected began to apparate.

It seemed to be reflexive rather than planned, jumping only a few feet when faced with a wall…

But sometimes… if they saw you in the distance…

Well.

People flocked to the warded places. Gringotts. Hogwarts. The Ministry. Some people, older families, stayed in their homes and sent out House Elves or owls for news and supplies.

There was no way of knowing how many were left. In the middle of London and with dozens of access points, the Ministry was compromised early on. Gringotts was ruthless but they went silent too. People whispered that they'd simply killed the wizardfolk within the bank but nobody could get in to check.

Hogwarts became the last sanctuary in Britain. Owls were sent all over the isles and to the continent, to other enclaves, to family, to strays, to leaders of the Muggle world. There was talk of mandatory breeding programs - that was _how many_ wizards and witches had been lost - as well as mandatory extermination squads to clear out the entire island - through fire, if necessary.

_The Muggles brought this upon us_ the consensus seemed to be. _They have no say in how we put a stop to it_.

_Things are going to __**change**__ around here_.

_That_ was when he'd left. It wasn't the fact that his bloodline - though tainted by his mother - was considered valuable enough for him to be required to impregnate almost every able female. _That_ was something far more unpleasant for the women involved than himself and with the population as it was he _would_ have done his duty with those who consented and pretend to with those who didn't. It wasn't even the talk of forcing people to put their lives at risk in order to go out and kill infected, no, he'd _signed up _for that! He was _all for_ the Wizarding people finally getting off their behinds and protecting themselves.

No, it was the _talk_ that chased him away. The resurgence, even _now_, of hatred and bigotry and blame. Of political manoeuvring, of greedy men looking to subjugate.

The end of their species was facing them, and their leaders were looking only to make themselves _kings._

Portkeys out of Britain were expensive, and restricted, but he'd _proven himself_ by that point. He was a known figure in their world, a defender, one who cut down the terror and rescued those that could be rescued. He wasn't a political figure but _was_ a semi-celebrity, generous with both his time and his resources.

He was _trusted_.

Sometimes he still felt a twinge of guilt, for taking advantage of that trust. He wondered who, if anyone, took care of the orphans after he left. He wondered how many women had killed themselves rather than be reduced to breeding stock. He wondered if there were any wizards or witches _left_ in the isles. Or if their ugly, ruthless, pitiless plan had _worked_ and he'd given it all up in one moment of impulsive disgust.

He tried not to regret.

Most of the time, he succeeded.

**fin**


	2. Chapter 2

**Flipside Firefly**

He liked to think that Hermione was still alive. She'd been in Australia, visiting her parents, and the Muggle newspapers he'd filched as he travelled north from Florida had spoken of the place as some sort of untouched paradise, protected by its natural ocean borders.

From the pictures Hermione had sent back however, over two years ago now, it had mostly looked like a red wasteland. That was part of the reason he never bothered trying to make his way there. The _other_ reason was that his only option was Muggle transport - portkeys not being able to make that sheer distance - and even if he could afford it, transport was rigidly controlled now and he had _no_ Muggle identification whatsoever. He could disillusion himself for a while, but transports were always packed and as a stowaway (who couldn't maintain any spell for the 20-odd hours of a _plane ride_ let alone the weeks of a ship) he'd be caught and either shot or arrested as standard. There was always _imperio_, except for how he didn't dare cross that line. _Confundus_ was only temporary and _obliviate_… no. Not unless he had no other choice.

Besides. Hedwig was dead and Hermione knew that. And she hadn't sent him an owl.

The Wizards he'd left behind had, but he never accepted them and they'd never dare to send a portkey by owl just in case he'd been infected. They'd probably already turned him into a martyr for the very cause he'd left in disgust over, but that wasn't as bad as actively being a part of it.

If this was the end of the world, he'd at least spend his remaining time _not_ loathing himself. Too much.

There were no wizard colonies in America, not since their rebellion against the crown which was a much more serious affair for people whose oaths actually bound them. That meant Harry had a fair degree of freedom in the use of his magic. He had to be careful not to be too flashy, obvious or even _visible_ at times, at risk of collecting (another) group of desperate people looking for protection. That or volunteering himself as a labrat for a foreign government under martial law. _But_… he helped when he could. A reparo _here_, a patch-work spell on a broken limb _there__…_

_And unquiet ghosts __**everywhere**__, the streets flooded with memories of terror and trauma, death and despair._

At least his ring - which he woke with on his finger no matter what he did to it - was good for something. The wandering, the lost, the echoes and the re-living - all startled under his hand before passing peacefully on. Some pleaded with him, snatches of words he couldn't - didn't want to - make out. Some thanked him. Most were just confused and afraid, until the lethargy of the other side folded them under.

When he couldn't take the misery any longer, or the infected grew too many and too near, he took to the skies and escaped again.

**fin**


	3. Chapter 3

**Flipside Firefly**

He found his way to Salem. The land there was nice, trees heavy with fruit and fields full of crops.

Plus, there were a lot of 'witches welcome' signs. He figured it was a good omen.

There were people in Salem, survivors, uninfected. Some were locals, others had made their way there. All shared a similar belief about the root of the infection.

The Devil.

Plain-faced women, driving gleaming BMWs with men and boys both resting rifles out the windows, cruised through the streets looking for infected - or sinners. Preachers stood outside churches and public buildings, screaming into a crowd that roared back. One denomination burned books, dvds, makeup, clothing and jewellery. Another burned _people_.

Harry watched, silent and invisible, as a pretty young woman was dragged in front of a rabid crowd and accused of serving the devil. Of spreading the plague. Of being a whore. Of being a _witch_.

He watched as neither group stepped forward to defend her, not even her sobbing mother. He watched as a pyre was built around her and set alight. He watched history repeat itself.

Then he killed them all, every man woman and child, and moved on.

**fin**

OOC? Harry considers these people to be just as infected and irredeemable as those with fungus growing out of their ears.


	4. Chapter 4

**Flipside Firefly**

Shrivelling curses worked like, well, a _charm_.

He's gotten good at killing the infected. Avada Kedavra takes a lot to manage and he never _did_ get a clear answer as to whether it corrupts the user. But on the other hand, it kills _everything_ including the fungi. Bodies that were merely decapitated or rendered unusable still fed the growth inside them, a handy bundle of nutrients that meant more spores some time down the road.

_But_, AKs took _effort_ and _energy_ he didn't have - especially with food being something to scavenge, even for him. Three or four a day - no problem. Hundreds? _Big _problem.

But cutting curses? One thin line of power took a fraction of the energy of a minor blasting curse and was much more effective if you had the aim for it. Decapitations killed the body and a shrivelling curse killed the fungi.

It wasn't exactly a _cure_, not for the people already gone enough to attack. The fungus… got into their brains. Even wizards knew _that. _Shrivelling or vanishing the fungus left _holes_ that not even magic could fix.

Still. He got good at killing. He even got into the habit of doing it as he travelled. With a broom he wasn't dependant on the highways, nor at risk of being picked up by the military - who evacuated some people and executed others, seemingly randomly.

He heard the whines and booms of heavy military fire, thankfully always in the distance. He avoided the big cities as a matter of course and it was around these that the Americans seemed to focus their efforts.

Focused on survival as he was, he meandered according to threats, weather and food. He didn't have a wizarding tent but he got good at spotting areas where he could rest safely. Rooftops were easy to secure - ladders shorn away and doorways _colloportus_-ed.

He kept a tarp, blanket and pillow shrunken in his pocket. A few sticking charms, a generalised anti-pest charm and he could - and did - hole up safely almost anywhere he went.

It was… almost peaceful. Only the occasional shriek of the infected or dying, drifting through the air from miles around broke up what was almost a dream retirement for the weary wizard.

No Death Eaters hunting him down. No ministry and magical people pushing their demands and hopes upon him. No friends to protect and fear for. Just him and his wand, waiting out the future.

**fin**


	5. Chapter 5

**Flipside Firefly**

He fell in with a group just south of California, a bunch of hippies going by the name 'The Fireflies'.

They'd raided the farm he'd been leisurely squatting in, picking up what they could in an apparent 'Robin Hood' move to feed people who were starving.

Or so he gathered as he listened to them, invisible once more and somewhat annoyed to have his temporary home invaded.

Apparently, the farm would be the next in a line of acquisitions for a government workforce sent out from the nearest safe-zone, but anything gained from it would be sent _away_ to a different city where the military leaders were ensconced.

The Fireflies did not approve. They had two trucks and in it went bags upon bags of wild potatoes, cow corpses and anything else their cheerfully unwashed members could scavenge. Two teens, industriously digging up smaller rosemary and lavender bushes, chattered excitedly about 'the new outpost', away from the cities where amazing things like 'democracy' would be in force and farms would be established so nobody had to go outside and they could just wait everything out.

It was a nice dream. Nostalgic and a little lonely, he packed away his gear and cautiously made himself known - and was accepted almost immediately. Smiles and a lightning-fast explanation was followed with an offer - help and go with them or stay to be picked up by the military later on.

Nobody threatened him. Despite their hurry and obviously illegal activities, nobody even seemed to _think _of silencing him. With their longish hair and bright eyes, they were a welcome diversion from reality.

It wasn't till the end, when an infected with no legs had crawled undetected through long grass to bite one of their youngest that he was truly _wanted_, though.

Before their horrified eyes, he hit both infected and girl with the shrivelling curse, the legless man writhing as his entire body withered and the fungi growing out of him fell into dust, the girl shrieking as her wound burned suddenly. Another flick of his wand and her skin sealed up, not even a faint redness to show where she'd been bitten.

They celebrated him that night, toasted their success and his abilities and the bright future they envisioned - now with the safety net of someone who could help keep defender casualties down. Nearly thirty people came together around several tables on top of an abandoned supermarket, feasting and laughing and debating where best to found the new Firefly colony in this new, infected frontier.

Harry almost found himself getting excited, despite knowing that the reality of building such a thing would be much grimmer, harder and boring. He certainly wouldn't have the freedom of movement that he enjoyed now and sooner or later people would start looking to him to do _more_ than what he'd already shown them.

He snuck out that night with a kid a bit younger than himself - but hey, seventeen was the age of adulthood in the Wizarding World - and reacquainted himself with something _else_ he'd been a bit nostalgic for. The night had been just the right side of cool, the pair of them young enough to go several rounds before dawn broke and the army descended.

The supermarket was blasted. A single tank backed up a truck load of armed and armoured men, who shouted as they rounded up the survivors of the first attack.

Gatherings such as theirs was illegal under martial law.

The soldiers called for surrender then, when they got it, lined their captives up and shot them dead.

Only a handful of Fireflies survived, eluding the soldiers through skill, luck and a little magical help.

Harry disappeared from their side as soon as they found a working car. He'd just been reminded why it was that he lived a life of solitude.

It hurt so much less.

**fin**


	6. Chapter 6

**Flipside Firefly**

He kept a radio on him. Just a little pocket kind that wasn't too difficult to enchant to run off magic. He'd sat through Mr Weasley's time-spending lectures on the _how_ often enough that it hadn't been hard to put into practice.

Most of the time, it only gave him static.

In certain areas, however, the radio waves were almost lively. A city up north, just south of the Canadian border, had _easy listening_ on one channel, _classic rock_ on another and public access on a third - on top of the usual army frequencies. That had been a nice place. He'd even crept inside the city for better reception, living in a tiny room with broken windows in one of the border buildings. The staircase was just _gone_ so he didn't much need to worry about people finding him. He didn't have the ration card things that people wanted so he still had to go out flying to find food and that _wasn't_ a long-term option, but…

But he could go to sleep with the sound of recorded laughter and talkshows in his ear. He could wake up to an orchestra. He could watch people moving in the streets below. He could feel less alone, a part of something, without risking the pain that came from inevitable loss.

He shouldn't have stayed as long as he did.

Food started getting hard to find in the outside so he took to wandering the streets, looking to find someone to trade with for the various items he'd scavenged. Clothes and medicines were in demand, books less so.

He didn't notice anything was wrong until people stopped trading, or tried to give him fistfuls of cards instead. He never accepted the cards - you had to show ID when you redeemed them - so he spent longer on the streets.

He heard the background noise of the city change, frothing with something violent and desperate. People started brawling in the streets, over a single bit of mangy bread. The soldiers seemed to break down too, some of them shooting down those who got violent but others turned their weapons on each other.

Inexcusably naively, he thought the infection had broken quarantine.

But no. This was very human.

_The Fireflies are rising_ he heard whispered, a code, a prayer. Explosions started to shatter the peace. Men and women shook with fear, but kissed their friends and families goodbye before joining the fight.

_**You'll die before we starve**_.

They all just wanted to eat. To survive. Trapped in a city, free from infected but not free to leave, the people rose up.

His radio started to hiss and crackle, the non-military channels going silent. Every so often, a voice would announce the goals of the Fireflies - democracy, all branches of government, food for all. All the dreams of the Fireflies he'd known, spoken down the barrel of a rifle.

These weren't hippies. These were the bloody survivors, the descendants of that first purge. They were as violent as the world that birthed them.

And behind the crack of gunfire and slaps of concussive force, always, was the sound of frightened people screaming.

Because most of them didn't _want_ to fight, or kill, or disobey, or make trouble… they just wanted to _eat_. They just wanted to _live_.

He left before the war concluded. It was not the sort that could _have_ a victor, no matter who was left standing at the end.

The food had stopped coming for a reason. Killing people wouldn't make it come back.

He dropped his radio from 2000 feet and wondered when _he'd_ learn his damned lesson.

**fin**


End file.
